Square One
by Era Yachi
Summary: Certain someones want Angel's allies dead. But you see, they want to live. Hence the problem. Post Not Fade Away. Mainly Lorne and Spike centric, some Angel and Angelus. No slash.
1. Business

_Square One_

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**Summary: **No matter how far you go, you cannot escape your past. The corrupted world Lorne leaves behind comes crashing back. Only, he's through with it. (After Not Fade Away. Mainly Lorne, Spike, and Illyria. Nonslash.) 

**Notes: **I cannot stress enough how much time I spent dwelling over this story. At first, I never wanted to write it. The reasons are unexplainable. But as you can see, mind always comes before matter. Even when you don't want it to.

There are two points to this story: one being the obvious—concluding and hopefully shedding some metaphorical light on the fates of the characters. Two: I just cannot get over the fact that out of 221 pages of Angel fanfiction, only 2 are dedicated to Lorne? Come on! Where's the love? (pun intended) Yeah, you heard me.

This tale is not entirely Lorne-based. I have a handy habit of mixing in everyone's favorite characters in an episode-based approach. Good times.

I accept all comments and CC, but not pointless character bashing and/or flaming. I realize there may be some Angel fans out there who are _not_ happy with Lorne and the turnout of the last episode. For those people, I ask: read and enjoy or do not read at all. But hey, you might be surprised.

**Disclaimer: **Dear lord, if I owned any rights to these characters, I would have ended the series differently. I take no credit for any of the characters included in the following chapters. Excluding Rhett. And Naomi. And Scott. And…

**CONTAINS SPOILERS.**

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_Chapter One: Business_

The streets ran with rainwater and demon blood. Spike watched it stream across his skin, flowing out of numerous wounds and he spat some it out, only to have his own blood wash into his mouth and down his lips once more. It was pouring still. Washing away the bits of torn flesh and gore into the grates in the alley, taking away the stench and presence…but not the memory.

"Angel?" he shouted hoarsely, turning in a slow circle. The tip of his stolen sword dragged on the stones as he turned. Severed limbs, heads, punctured bodies and the like…they were everywhere. Some Apocalypse. The rest of the demons were gone, snatched up by whatever unholy hell that had spawned them in the first place. Only behind him, the carcass of the dragon lay scattered in pieces.

Hell. Fred, then Wesley…and now Gunn and Angel? Lorne, too…though Spike could care less the fate of Lindsey, he hoped for their success…at least for green guy. A surge of raw anger overcame him then, thinking that maybe, just maybe…he was the very last one alive. Abandoned in a sea of carnage, for which he was partly at fault for making. Spike tilted his head towards the sky and allowed the heavy raindrops pound into his eyelids, taking long, uneasy breaths.

"It's over."

Spike turned around sharply and caught himself before he could react _too _happily. There stood Angel, hunched over his own sword, probably twice as bloody and just as relieved to find another survivor of the massacre. The blonde vampire sighed heavily and began to walk, painfully but still walking, to where the other stood.

"Yeah, over…right," he said, looking through the pounding rain at Angel's face. "What about Gunn and Illyria? What the hell happened?"

Angel looked long and ruthlessly at him. He looked so entirely crushed that Spike believed, in that moment, that they truly were all that remained. But a moment later, the older vampire lifted his head.

"Gunn is fine. Illyria…God only knows."

Spike let that absorb, lifting several thousand pounds off his shoulders in the process. "Right. That's good. And Lindsey, have you heard from him?"

Just then, Angel's face split into a painful grimace and he sunk to his knees. Spike dropped his sword and caught him by the shoulders. Angel unsuccessfully tired to shrug him off. "I…Lindsey is dead. I told…I told Lorne-"

Spike released him as if burned by the touch. "Holy…shit…"

"He's not coming back. Lorne," said Angel. "He's gone. He might even be dead. It's my fault…"

"What the hell does that mean?" Spike shot. Suddenly, he threw himself at the other vampire and grabbed him by the lapels, hoisting him to his feet. "What did you do this time, Angel? One last secret, is it? Well I've got loads of time, now that I've got no bloody reason to live. So lets hear it!"

Angel grunted painfully at the treatment of his nearly disemboweled body, but did not fight back. "It's over Spike. I…I have nothing left. I gave it up. It's what the Senior Partners wanted all along. They…"

Realizing that Angels' difficulty to speak may be resulting from his suspension in the air, Spike lowered him roughly to the ground, where Angel slumped on his knees. His head slowly raised to face the vampire standing before him. "The prophecy, the apocalypse, it was all a fake. Fake. They don't even want me. They want…the soul that…was given to me…"

"Shit," was all Spike could say.

"If I gave it to them…it would end. That was the deal. They would save Gunn, call off the army…but…they wouldn't believe me…they're angry."

A cold, deadly silence passed in the seconds that followed. Spike's stare drilled right into Angel, as if searching for another layers of lies under his injured façade.

Angel very sluggishly got to his feet, wavering. "They're angry. About Lindsey. Because Lorne…it had to happen, Spike. I had a vision…"

"Oh, here we go," said Spike, sneering.

Angel went on as if Spike had said nothing at all. "I saw Lindsey…in my…no, Cordy's vision, Lindsey…killed Lorne. It's…it's insane. When he finished the Sarhvin, all he did was sing. He sang, and Lorne just…just…"

"Exploded?" taunted Spike, snorting.

The expression on the dark-haired vampire's face tightened and he lowered his gaze. Spike immediately felt incredibly stupid. "Oh."

"The Senior Partners…were going to use Lindsey against me. Against us. That's why I told Lorne to…" Angel shook his head.

Spike stood for a moment in silence. Then, "You turned a karaoke comedian into a killer."

Another lengthy pause. "Lorne…agreed to do it…because he was the only one who could. He was the only one Lindsey wasn't expecting to turn against him…I had no choice. If Lorne hadn't…everything Lindsey knew, the Senior Partners—"

There was nothing that could be said following that, not even for Spike. They stared at each other for a while, coming to a quiet understanding. On Spike's part, he was beginning to suspect that there was something Angel was not sharing.

"They made a deal."

Spike's eyes widened and the age-old suspicion flared. "Another deal, Angel? Gave away something else that doesn't belong to you?"

"I gave them my soul," said Angel.

Silence.

"You-" Spike began.

"In exchange for Gunn's life, and everyone else in LA. You know we wouldn't win the battle alone, Spike. Half the city would probably have died before the demons we didn't kill were stopped."

"But you're not…" Spike pause. He gestured towards him. "I mean, you don't look like-"

"Contract rules. They're actually…willing to wait a human lifetime for my soul. So yeah, no Angelus until I tie up…a lot of loose ends."

"That's a damned mosquito's life compared to them," Spike said. "So…wait. This entire nightmare was all about one measly little soul? I mean, no offense, but…what about me? I have a soul! Don't I get a chance to save the face of humanity?" He hesitated. "Again?"

"Sorry, Spike," said Angel, with a slightly askew grin. "Turns out the fake prophecy was about me. And my soul happens to be…special."

Spike crossed his arms. "That's the biggest load of crap I've ever heard."

"Really? I've heard bigger." Angel grimaced and placed a hand over a large gouge in his right arm. "Uh…I don't know about you, but…with Gunn in the hospital, Wolfram & Hart in ruins and Illyria M.I.A…I'm about ready for a Jack Daniel."

"The big ones," said Spike, using a hand to imitate the action of shaking a large bottle. "Not the little bitty ones."

"Agreed," said Angel. "Just after we stop bleeding."

They left the carnage, the weapons, and the remaining traces of the battle behind the blood-soaked place. Side-by-side, the two vampires with souls traipsed towards the end of the dead alley, and towards the end of the corrupted life. Neither knew how soon the world of agreement would shatter.

* * *

_Ten months later._

The dusk in New York hung like the suffocating humidity that had wrapped itself around the city for so many weeks. The remnants of an orange sun glowed between the stacks of tall office buildings, concealed from the eyes that rarely saw it. Just as the day was fading out, the tail end of the busiest traffic also became thin and staggered. Downtown was a muggy nest full of assorted breeds: white, black, red, blue, yellow, tan and green.

Friday night at Square One.

It filled up quickly—not surprisingly, considering the popularity of one of the few demon-tolerant karaoke bars in the whole of New York State. The regulars mingled with newcomers easily, while everyone clapped and appreciated the performers on stage, regardless of quality or talent. No one gets booed when the host is watching.

The problem with New York was the tenacity of violence. Not that violence was a problem within the bar itself—Square One was protected with nearly the same wards as Caritas, give or take a rule involving the Deluran clan of Shimagresh demons. But then, there were some laws that could not be legally surpassed. Business was business. Sometimes people would file into the bar for the protection of the wards only, which was unfortunate in terms of profit, but then…Lorne was through with profit.

He was only half-listening to the Helglian on stage, horrendously murdering the lyrics to Don McClean's "American Pie". The Sea Breeze lay cradled in his fingers like the weight of the world. He had been standing like this for nearly an hour, leaning against the wall beside the stage.

New York was different. In New York, no one knew him. Of course, his employees _knew_ him, but how they truly know? It had only been eight months since he'd bought the slightly-more-than-regular-size basement of an old hotel and converted it into what it was today—another sanctuary, another place to feel safe in.

Safe. Was that why he hadn't stepped outside ever since?

The Helglian's song ended; a few scattered persons clapped politely as they awaited the next performer. Oblivious to his ill repute, the abnormally hairy demon came lumbering offstage to meet the green-skinned host.

"Margyris, my one and only Helglian friend," Lorne greeted with a slight tilt of his head. "What can I say? Less street-stalking. Trust me, one more lamp post in the dark, and you're bound to become the next stuffed exhibit in the local museum."

The Helglian nodded, eager to take any advice at all from the Pylean. He let out a confused growl, however, when the host turned around to leave. Angrily, he spoke his concerns aloud in his own language, causing Lorne to turn again.

"Well, I'm sorry, Chewbacca," he said with a tinge of offense. "There's nothing else there. But if you want some personal advice, I'd lay back a little on the human flesh. Bad for the image, not to mention the breath."

Margyris grunted neutrally, unhappy but unwilling to argue. With the ghost of a shrug, the Helglian sauntered back towards the bar, where some form of tonic or another awaited him.

Lorne considered the glass in his hand for a moment, unable to determine how long it had been empty. There was time to refill it. The next performance was just that; no psychic readings or troubled souls involved. He journeyed towards the counter and placed the glass down, where a delicate hand immediately swooped it up.

"You can't please them all," said the barmaid, a youthful though rather pleasant brunette with exceptionally bright eyes. She proceeded to refill the barren glass. "Can you please stop trying? It's depressing me."

"Sorry, butterfly," said Lorne, leaning on the bar. "Gave that up sometime around last spring. How's the crowd looking? If it's any worse than last Friday, don't tell me. Just put that in a bigger glass."

The barmaid gave a small, thin-lipped smile as she wordlessly bent behind the counter to locate something. She stood up again and placed a glass easily twice the size of the one she had been mixing on the bar. Lorne made a beaten sound of protest.

"I don't know, boss," she said, drumming her fingers on the wooden surface. "If it weren't for your 'no weapons, no brawling' policy, the people who are actually buying drinks would have a little extra elbow room." She handed him his Sea Breeze.

Lorne took the glass with no sign that he had registered her opinion. He took a long swig of the drink before setting it back down on the counter. "Not just a policy, twitterbug. Ground rules. I don't think 'elbow room' is mentioned under the definition of sanctuary, anyway."

"Really?" she snorted. "What version of Websters are you using?"

Before Lorne had a chance to reply, he felt someone nudge him on the shoulder. One of his employees, a man with short-cropped hair gestured towards the stage. "Newbie's up, boss. Hey, Naomi."

"Hey, creep," the barmaid replied dispassionately.

But 'creep' was too busy staring at the newest performer on the stage with a slightly crazed grin. "Hey," he whispered to Lorne. "Tell me if I'm anywhere in her near future, will you? I mean…_damn_."

"Scott, I sincerely doubt you're anywhere in your _own_ near future," Naomi taunted him, once again cutting off the host before he had a chance to speak. Her eyes darted towards the young woman on the stage malevolently. "Besides, she's not _that_ attractive."

Scott snorted in spite of her. "Don't be jealous, baby doll…"

"I'm not jealous!" she snapped. "And don't call me 'baby doll'. Get back to work!"

Lorne, who was in mid-sip with his Sea Breeze, set the glass down again. He pointed at Naomi with a sweeping of his eyes. "You're jealous, grasshopper" he remarked.

Her mouth dropped open in a wide 'O' of barely restrained fury. Scott sniggered as the green host stood up, but shut up abruptly when Lorne stuck a finger in his face.

"Back to work, baby doll," said Lorne, and stepped around the pale-faced employee with the sentiment of a demon. Or, at least, a different kind of demon.

Scott's stuttering words of protest were drowned out by the barmaid's manic laughter. Lorne ignored them both and approached the stage, examining its single occupant for the first time. It was a young woman, late twenties, shy and nervous; standing just in front of the microphone stand with the look of pure innocence. As far as attraction went…yeah, sure, toss a few bouquets of flowers and a sash at her and she could be Miss New York, but so what?

But why did she look so familiar?

Light auburn hair, bordering strawberry blonde; blue eyes, plain beige blouse and nothing remarkable to speak of. It was quite clear why Scott would be so infatuated, but there was still that nagging sense of familiarity. Lorne frowned briefly. Had he seen her in someone's future before?

Lorne brushed these meaningless questions away and quickly bounced onto the stage, grabbing the microphone from the stand. The blonde jumped a little, startled, but the host was already standing at the front of the stage, addressing the audience.

"I don't know about you, folks, but I'm just _green_ with envy at the incredible bravery this young bundle sunshine is showing tonight," he said, trying to put the old effort and style to work. It was difficult, somehow. It always would be. "Isn't she simply precious? Ladies and gentlemen, I'd like to introduce you to…" He offered the mike to the blushing woman.

Her face seemed to blanche a little as she leaned forward timidly into the mike. "Um, B-Bethany…Gibson."

"Well, Bethany, I have a feeling you'll steal the show tonight. I can already tell you've stolen the hearts of many handsome faces in the audience. Stop blushing, Torabek. I can see you," the host went on. The audience chuckled. "So Beth…can I call you Beth? This is your little moonbeam we're talking about. Why don't you tell us something about you?"

She seemed _very_ taken aback when he placed the microphone in her hands and she nearly dropped it. Lorne gave her an appraising look before he exited stage right, circling around to join the audience and their tables. Bethany seemed to follow him with her eyes until he stood just at the foot of the stage, his arms crossed expectantly.

The mike squealed slightly as she cleared her throat. Her free hand was unconsciously wringing the edge of her blouse as she spoke. "I…I'm originally from LA. I don't want to waste your time or anything…I don't even know what I sound like. I've never sung before."

The bar was eerily quiet. Not silent, mind, but quiet.

"I shouldn't be here…not really," Bethany went on. Her gaze was fixed on the ground. "But you all know what it's like…when you have to know."

There were some murmurings of agreement, and there was event he detection of some uneasiness from some of the tables. Lorne had the feeling that more than a few pairs of eyes were now on him. He tried to shrug the feeling off. It didn't help.

Bethany inhaled sharply, apparently in the façade to appear optimistic. "So…so I guess, in the spirit of the holidays, I'll sing a Christmas carol." After a pause, she sighed. "Here goes…"

As was his norm with all first-time singers, Lorne found himself shutting out the rest of the noise around him to focus on the sound her voice only. He wasn't sure what he was expecting. Mostly, the odds with human women her age dealt with family qualms, marriage, stress at work, psychotic demon stalkers, the question of terminal illness, and on. The accompanying music began to play. With the precision of a surgeon, he locked his red eyes on her face just as she prepared to bare her soul.

Bethany closed her eyes and sang. "Oh come, all ye fai-"

An unseen explosion erupted in the space between her place and Lorne, a sheer ripple of nothing but raw power that struck him at full force. It picked him up and sent him flying across the tabletops, before he crashed into the wall above the bar. He, along with many shattered bottles and bits and pieces of shelf fell limply to the floor.

Shocked screams and growls of surprise followed thereafter. Bethany, with a look of sickened horror, dropped the mike and stood up. "I…I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry, I shouldn't have-"

No one was paying any attention to her. Those who were not too drunk to disregard the event were either rushing to the back of the bar, or arguing in panicked tones. A surge of immense regret welled up in her throat. She rushed forward, shoved her way through the swarm of bodies and fled out the door. In her flight, she forgot to pick up her jacket, which lay folded over the edge of her previously occupied chair.

Naomi was bent over the unconscious form of the host, cradling his head. "Would someone give me a _hand_ here, please?" she shouted over the clamor.

Scott and another bartender, a trainee, rushed over to her. Their shoes crushed the shards of glass underfoot as they each slung one of Lorne's arms around their shoulders and hoisted him off the floor.

Naomi sighed as she watched the green-skinned host being hauled away, before picking up a cloth and beginning to wipe up the worst of the mess. "So much for ground rules."

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**AN: **_Hope you enjoyed this teaser thingy. Next chapter if for your Spike…people…lovers. Does anyone recognize Bethany? Come on. I know she was only in one episode…26, 'Untouched'…remember? She was good. She had potential. Anyway. Review if you got 'em._


	2. Winter

_Square One_

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**Summary: **No matter how far you go, you cannot escape your past. The corrupted world they tried to leave behind comes crashing back...Post Not Fade Away. Mainly Lorne and Spike centric, nonslash.

**Notes: **Well, the traffic isn't as jammy as I'd hope, but that's okay…maybe after this chapter, I'll convince people that reading my fanfiction won't poison them. Hehe. Anyway, thanks for the reviews PuddlesToGrowOn and SinodaBear.

Oh, by the way…I realize there's more than 2 Lorne fanfics…I mentioned in my last chapter that only two _pages_ out of 221 were more or less dedicated to him. Not a lot in the grand scheme of things…anyway, thanks again. On with the show…

**Disclaimer: **Consult previous chapter.

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_Chapter Two: Winter's Eve _

It was roughly eleven o'clock that same night, and Lorne was staring incredulously at the spot he had oh-so-objectionably collided with some hours ago. He was sitting on a stool, nursing a brand new goose egg between his horns with an ice pack. He was bruised, but otherwise uninjured. He had experience with the…experience of flying across the room, after all.

The clinking of glasses drew his somewhat disoriented attention to Naomi, who had crept up on him from behind the counter. She leaned against the shelves behind her and crossed her arms. "I hope you bought insurance on those wards."

Lorne rolled his eyes and dropped the icepack on the bar. "Couldn't resist feasting on the pathetic little remainder of self-esteem left in my achy-breaky heart?"

Naomi feigned thoughtfulness. "Hmmm…no."

"When in Rome…" Lorne heaved a sigh. "Did our telekinetic princess say anything?"

"No," she said again. "Besides 'oh my God, oh my god, I'm so sorry' before running out the door? No. Why? Oh, did you want her number? Because I could have-"

Lorne picked up the icepack and threw it at her apathetically. It bounced harmlessly off of the invisible barrier that the wards tendered. Naomi shook her head, grinning, and went back to rearranging the glasses and bottles that had been displaced, but were relatively unbroken.

"Yeah, well, eat your heart out Evel Knievel," said Lorne, gently prodding his head with two fingers. "Last time I was konked during a reading, the world was eating its last French fry, if you know what I mean. I wonder if-"

His voice trailed off mid-sentence. When Naomi looked up, she saw the host was gazing off into the midst of the crowded tables with a mildly shaken expression. She raised an eyebrow inquisitively. "Boss…?"

Not that Lorne staring off into space for no apparent reason was uncommon. Naomi had worked here at Square One since the very beginning, since spring, and she had learned a few costly, key facts about her new employer. One: he was deeply troubled. Not in the semi-psychotic, go nuts with arsenal in blazing, fiery rage kind of way, but…sad. She had her fair share of characters in the past, and Lorne was no exception. The fascia he put on for business, show and general merriness was but a shell and the _real_ Lorne, someone she had no doubt had once existed without the shell, was hidden way, _way_ below the surface. No doubt the cheery, green host had done something he wished would not have happened.

But then, in New York, _everyone_ had done _something_ they regretted.

Lorne was, indeed, lost in translation. Somewhere, among the mixture of faces strange and foreign, he'd seen the uncomfortably familiar visage of someone he loved…but knew was dead. That meant only one thing.

Illyria.

Alive. More or less.

But the connections went wild in his mind. Illyria? Illyria meant Wesley, and Wesley meant Angel. And if Angel were here—

Lorne leapt from his seat, accidentally knocking over his Sea Breeze. Naomi's hand whipped out to try to catch it before it rolled off the edge, but failed. The glass shattered on the ground.

"Hey! I just finished cleaning _up_ three bucketfuls of broken glass! _Three_, Lorne!" she criticized, slapping the wet rag she was cleaning with down on the countertop angrily. Seeing his furled brow, she sighed. "What's wrong?"

His hand went up to signify for her to wait, and he quickly strode away from the bar without taking his eyes off the back of a certain head. A head with long brown hair, streaked with blue, attached to the unmistakable maroon leather body of the ancient one. A Banshai demon screeched when he stepped on her tail, but he went straight through without hesitating once.

When he was just fifteen feet or so from reaching her, she stepped forward and slipped into the crowd. Lorne broke into a sprint, but stumbled over someone's extended foot. When he looked up, there was not even a trace of her to be seen. He advanced cautiously, unknowing to the strange glares his customers were giving him. No Illyria. Not anywhere. And certainly no Wesley.

Lorne swore in Pylean, a feat he had not done since…well, Pylea. That was all he needed. A crazed, uncontrollable ancient demon under Angel's influence on the—

"And so you're back, from outer space," sang a distinctively British voice from behind. "I just walked in here, to find you with that sad look upon your face…"

Lorne's eyes widened as he twisted around to face a very recognizable, platinum blonde vampire. Spike stood with arms outstretched and a sarcastic, inane grin on his face.

For a torrent of seconds, Lorne blinked at the vampire, as though not fully understanding his presence. Spike dropped his arms to his sides and made a helpless gesture. "What? I track you down for three weeks and this is the 'hello' I get?"

Lorne stood with the very essence of forlornness stretched across his face. "Where's Angel?"

Spike's mouth opened in mock affront, and shook his head sadly. "Hello, Spike. Nice to see you alive and well. How's the bloody weather?"

But the host was in no mood for Spikes idleness. He stepped right into the soul-equipped vampire's face and spoke slowly, unsympathetically. "Where is Angel?"

"In Cabo, drinking margaritas" said Spike, leaning away from Lorne's sudden proximity. His face scrunched with revulsion. "Apparently, you had the same idea."

Truthfully, Lorne already had an idea where Angel was, and for that matter, Gunn. Very typical of Spike, to use any means other than long-winded explanations to put his situation into perspective. This being, of course, the first time he had ever actually _heard_ the vampire sing, it was clear that the reason for his sudden appearance was pretty important. Lorne didn't need empathic abilities to grasp that.

"But hey, don't let my bearing of the big, bad news ruin the party," said Spike, gesturing widely with his arms at the surrounding crowd who were, in fact, staring on in silence at the spectacle. "I'll just be borrowing your host for a moment, if you don't mind. Carry on."

Lorne looked intensely at Spike, ignorant of the bar occupants as they turned back to their drinks and former conversations. "That's, ah…really funny, Spike, because I was just about to grade your personal little pop quiz that you just made me cram," he said with a plastic smile.

"Oh, jolly," drawled the vampire sarcastically. "And?"

"Leave now," the host said coldly, the phony, cheerful expression on his face melting. He stepped around Spike and started for the bar

Spike whirled around and stalked after him. "Wes is dead."

The green-skinned demon stopped short at the counter and hung his head. Spike could not see his expression, but there was the inclination that he had not picked up on that news while reading the vampire.

"Boss, is this man bothering you?" said Naomi, folding her arms across her chest. She gave Spike a disapproving glare, one that would turn any non-vampire into a pile of gooey nerves.

"Just telling it like it is," Spike said defensively, placing himself on a stool beside the brooding host. "It was a nice funeral, though. Too bad you missed it. Wes probably would've-"

"Okay, seriously Lorne-" Naomi cut the vampire off, pointing her finger at him threateningly. "Just give me the word. With or without the wards, I can stake this guy."

Lorne lifted his head, fingertips touching the bridge of his nose as though a migraine had seized upon him. "I'll have to take a rain check on that offer, twitterbug. Boy Wonder here has more lives than a litter of kittens."

"Now you're confusing me with Angel, mate," objected Spike. "And that's treading on dangerous territory."

"I told Angel to leave me alone," said the host.

"Again," said Spike, pointing deliberately at himself. "_Not_ Angel."

Lorne rolled his eyes, snatched his Sea Breeze from the counter and spun around. Spike was instantly on his feet again, tailing the host as he tried to escape. A young girl sneered at him when he nearly ran her over in his haste. Aggravated by Lorne's behavior and now, the manners of the empath's guests, the vampire dodged around her and caught up with his quarry.

"All right, so there's a slight chance Angel might have pointed me towards New York," he said, growing ever the more impatient knowing Lorne was ignoring him. "I felt like I owed him. Bloody strange feeling, really."

"What, because Mr. Too-High-And-Mighty-To-Tell-Best-Friend-Lorne-About-Soon-Impending-Death sweetened the deal with the Devils On High by selling his soul to end the reign of fire and blood in Los Angeles?" Lorne paused to add for emphasis. "Call me crazy, but…_still_ not seeing how this involves me."

Spike closed his eyes and tilted his head back with frustration. "Do I have to spell it out for you? I don't know any more bloody songs!"

"Right," said the Pylean flatly. "And I suppose now you're going to tell me that Angelwings himself isn't standing outside, waiting for you to drag me out by the horns to rejoin his crusade of death and slaughter."

"_Why_ is it so hard for anyone to believe that I can operate on a fully functional brain without Angel around?" Spike demanded to the sky, gesturing widely with his arms. "I'm a grown-up vampire now. Saved the world on my own and everything."

The bar was noisily going about the multiple businesses at hand, ignorant of the vampire and demon who stood face-to-face in a momentary battle of wits. Lorne sighed. "Look, your aura is kicking the crap out of my motivation to stay sane," he put blindly. "You're not aware of it yet, Sancho, but your intentions aren't picking daisies for the local clinic for blind kiddies."

"Brilliant," said Spike. "Do go on, I haven't had my ego shredded in weeks."

"Oh, come _on_, pancake," Lorne said raucously. "This whole shammoo smells like Bob Seger's retirement plans. You came here to make me leave _my_ little retirement haven, which, by the way, is working out rather well on my part, and there is nothing on this pretty green planet you can say or do to make me-"

"Eve," said Spike.

Lorne blinked and looked somewhat confused. "Say again?"

"Eve," the vampire said again, as if betraying some dire secret. "Remember her? Snippy little office bimbo who shacked up with the big guy Halloween?"

"Yeah, I remember who Eve is," said Lorne sternly. He narrowed his crimson eyes. "What about her?"

Spike hesitated for once, which did not improve the suspenseful suspicion that was now manifesting in the back of Lorne's mind.

"Eve," said the vampire at last. "Proud new Chief Executive Officer of Wolfram and Hart, LA. Former wife of Senior Partner's lapdog, Lindsey. You might recall him."

Lorne suddenly lost his grip on his Sea Breeze, which shattered on the floor.

With a confident tilt of his head, Spike locked eyes with the host. "Eve wants you dead, mate," he said.


	3. Responsibility

_Square One_

**Summary:** No matter how far you go, you cannot escape your past. The corrupted world they tried to leave behind comes crashing back...Post Not Fade Away. Mainly Lorne and Spike centric, nonslash.

**Notes: **Thought I should add something very, very important to these notes. In absolutely NO WAY, even in the slightest, teeniest bit, is Naomi a Mary Sue character. She's just a figment of my imagination…kind of necessary to the story…blah blah blah…but the point is—_not_ a Mary Sue. Glad I got that out. Again, _no_ Mary Sues in the story whatsoever. Yes. As long as we all understand…

Hooray! Feedback! Don't worry about Angel, mes amis. Angelus, too. You'll be seeing some of our happy hero later on in the story…

**Disclaimer:** Consult previous chapter.

* * *

_Chapter Three: Responsibility_

"Lorne!"

The green host snapped the case shut, completely ignorant of Naomi's demanding tone, and stepped back to survey the room. His private office/bedroom was about ten times less glamorous than his Vegas suite and three times smellier. The old hotel owner had promised it was just mildew—poisonous over a long period of time for humans, but harmless, ostensibly, to Pyleans. Truthfully, he wasn't going to miss the place a whole lot. Among other things.

"_Boss_," said Naomi, sitting on the edge of the bed. Spike was across the room, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, looking bored. "Come _on_," Naomi growled. "_Please_ talk to me? Boss? Lorne?"

For all her effort, she might as well have spoken in German. Lorne lifted the tiny piece of luggage off the mattress, snatched the long coat beside it and slung it over his shoulder. He turned to leave.

Naomi leapt to her feet before he could move. "Krevlorneswath of the Deathwok Clan!"

He froze.

"That's better." The barmaid stormed over to the door and blocked his way. "Now you _listen_ to me. Tonight has been a nightmare even without the untimely arrival of Spike-o Blonde-o. And now you're just going to _leave_ because some…crazy uppity bitch is trying to kill you?"

"That's 'all-powerful, well-connected_'_ uppity bitch, luv," said Spike pointedly.

"Right. Whatever," she sighed, waving her hands. "Lorne. What about the bar? What about the people who need your readings to predict what color their wedding dress will be? What about _me?_" She said the last one with a bit of a frustrated whine.

"Oh, really, dandelion, did you think I would forget all about you?" Lorne said with a crooked grin, stretching out his arms. "It's not like I'm on a one-way trip to Albuquerque. You know I'll be back before the cows come home." He paused, with slightly peculiar expression. "Which, strangely enough, would be considered treason to say back in Pylea. At least, it was."

Naomi regarded him sulkily, but stepped into his embrace in a begrudging act of compliance. "Fine. But only on one condition."

They pulled apart, and Lorne placed a hand on his chest, as if swearing an oath. "Anything, button."

Confidence, smug antagonism, came over her and she backed up, clasping her hands behind her in false innocence. "'_When the Sun Goes Down'_. Sing it. When you come back. Promise me."

"Maracas in hand and flowers in my hair, kitten," Lorne pledged.

Spike snorted, and the host shot him a death-glare. The vampire raised his brow guiltlessly. "Right. It's just…nothin', sorry. Go on."

Naomi turned her head from Lorne, to Spike in a way that suggested an almost sisterly over-protectiveness, likely to the cause of the vampire's bullyboy tactics. "Are all your friends this cute?" she asked Lorne.

"Spike," said the host with the traces of a disgusted frown tugging his lips. "Oh yeah, he's just a regular Paulina Simon," he went on, unfolding the long tan trench coat in his possession and thrusting his arms through the sleeves. He sidestepped to check his image in the mirror as he adjusted the collar of the garment. "Trust me, if you think Spot here has charm, you would just _love_ to meet Angel."

"You know an angel?" said Naomi.

At this, Spike pushed himself away from the wall and turned on Lorne, pointing at the poorly informed barmaid. "Wait, you two have been snogging for what…eight months? And you never told her about Angel?"

"_Snog_-" Naomi started.

"First of all," Lorne said irately, gesturing between Naomi and himself, as if speaking to a small child. "Platonic. Keep that delightful British expenditure to yourself. And second of all, sunshine, maybe you haven't quite figured this out yet, but…Angel? _Not_ exactly in my diary right now."

But Spike was grinning like a spoiled cherub at Christmastime. "Oh, this is hysterical!" he said, tossing his arms in the air. "'Course I'm thinking we're all on the same page here, but she's not even reading the same bloody book!"

"Okay!" Naomi barked, jumping to her feet angrily. "Just exactly _when_ did we start a book club?"

Lorne did not respond, but reached for the black-brimmed hat that hung from the corner of his closet door and placed it unceremoniously on his head, positioned just so in order to conceal both horns from view. Not much could be done about the rest, but he was counting on the tall lapel of his coat and the fact that it was going on one in the morning to take care of that. Most of the street wanderers would be drunks or fellow demons, anyhow.

Which caused his mind to wonder about nighttime, the smell of fresh air, the feeling of the crisp and cold bite of wintertime on his skin. Just _cold_ in general was something he was beginning to regret experiencing again. Despite its flaws, Square One was warm when it needed to be, and pleasantly air-conditioned during the summer. Now, however, he was taking he first leave since he first holed up here…and that nudged the plug covering some various old feelings.

Cold…it was cold the night the Apocalypse began. Lorne had very little doubt that it was truly over—after all, he _knew_ what the Apocalypse was meant to be, having seen it in the souls of oh-so-many countless people. Watched it terrorizing the streets of L.A. before the Senior Partners rolled down their sleeves and washed their hands of complete human annihilation. Seen it in the eyes of the only man he had ever killed as he died.

And now it was coming in the form of a vengeful woman. Lorne had _been—_he _knew_ the kind of power Eve had in the palm of her hand now that she had somehow won over the Partners and taken over Wolfram & Hart. If Lady Luck was with him, he might escape fatality for a few weeks at best. Even with Spike's aid, the chances of survival were not looking well for the fun-loving host.

"If it's all right with the missus," said Spike, drawing Lorne from his momentary lapse. "We can get a move on, Green Jeans. Time stands still for no man. Or vampire. Or…demon, really."

"Can't I at least come _with_ you?" Naomi demanded to know.

"No," said both Lorne and Spike simultaneously.

Shaking off the urge to curse the vampire via ancient Pylean customs, Lorne went on. "I need you to hold the fort, dumpling. In the completely unfeasible event something should happen to me, _you're_ the new ruler of the kingdom…if you get my drift."

Naomi cast her eyes to the floor and looked sulky. "Loud and clear," she mumbled.

"Brilliant," Spike interjected, stepping in between the two. "Peaches and cream for everybody. Let's go." He strode to the door and ducked through it, giving the host free rein to follow.

Lorne stood for a second or two, staring hesitantly at the solemn-faced, twenty-three-year-old woman he was about to leave in charge of his whole life during his absence. Then, with not so much as another word of parting, he hung his head slightly, turned, and left the room.

Naomi sat back down on the edge of the bed. The first two minutes of forever had just begun.

* * *

Lorne was right. It _was_ cold outside, and not just to the point the body shivered underneath three layers of clothing and your breath froze to your face. It was colder. For some reason, the term 'meat freezer' came to mind, as well as 'black hole' and 'Antarctica'. He immediately regretted his decision to leave Square One.

And Spike wasn't making the matter any more agreeable, either. The vampire's disposition shamed the weather. It made winter in New York seem like a Hawaiian holiday.

"Eve's got connections in every city in every state all over the bloody country," Spike told him as they rounded the corner of the hotel. "Got strict orders to take you to the southern border. Only safe place in the world is-"

"Yeah, Mexico City. Empath demon. Singing vampire. Ring any bells?" Lorne snapped irritably. "Uh, the last time I checked, this alley doesn't lead anywhere. Taco Bell is _that_ way, Dracula," he said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder.

Spike stopped long enough to face him, his faced twisted in annoyance. "Excuse me, mate, but by chance have you seen an old pal of mine? Name's Lorne. 'Bout this high, green, got these bitty red horns…"

"All fun and cute, Spike," said Lorne. "But I'm kind of in a hurry to escape the world's most psychotic widow. Right now my senses tell me that you're not hiding the great glass elevator behind those dumpsters."

As Lorne was in no mood to stop and argue in the middle of a frozen alleyway, he went right past the vampire as he spoke. Spike looked up at the sky, as if searching for divine guidance against his newest, unhappy charge, before falling in beside the host. The deeper they ventured into the alley, the darker it got, the less snow stirred around their feet.

"Don't bother," Lorne remarked, getting the impression that Spike was about to rebuke him. "Forgive me for being just a little skeptical, but this time, I'll count my blessings. I mean, at least Angelkins sent you, and not-"

He stopped at that moment, thrown off by the sound of something heavy landing on top of the metal dumpster ahead of him. Lorne jerked his eyes up just in time to watch as the depressingly familiar, lithe form of a woman snatched the edge of the metal bin and swung down to the paved ground below. She landed with perfect grace in the place just before the green-skinned demon.

"Illyria," he said, posing a sickly smile. "How…how nice to see you."

"Your statement lacks the emotion that merits sincerity," she replied coldly. "But I accept your greeting."

"Now _she_," said Spike, putting up a defensive hand in front of him, as though expecting the host to blame him for Illyria's company as well. "_She_ was all Angel's idea. "

"I was unable to adapt to the customs of this world without further guidance. Prior to his decease, Wesley affirmed that you, the Angel's clown, would suit well to replace his counseling," said Illyria, stone-faced.

Spike backed away, raising his brow. "She's all yours, mate."

"M-me?" the host nearly choked, and for the moment, stood with his mouth agape in dazed wonder. "But why…I mean, ah," he added quickly, catching onto the sharp, death-promising glare Illyria shot him. "Whatever the uh…the great glorious, ancient goddess commands, but uh…geez, talk about a bolt from the blue."

"Yeah, those will happen quite often from here on in," Spike mentioned helpfully.

Illyria regarded her new 'tutor' with a steely gaze. "Your instruction will suffice until I regain my powers. Until then, I will make certain you remain alive long enough to fulfill your purpose to me."

"Thanks a bunch," Lorne said sullenly. "Just praising whatever ungodly powers put you on my side, my beloved Queen of the Blue Hue."

But Illyria, as attentive was her nature, was no longer listening to him. Her clear, cerulean eyes were trained on the air just above Lorne's shoulder, staring at nothing in particular at all. Then, with no warning, she whirled around and paced in the opposite direction. Blinking back his confusion, Lorne made as though to follow her, but stopped short. "Hey-"

"Wait a-" Spike interrupted. "Illyria! Stay. Heel," he said, pointing at the ground with mock strictness.

She did not turn around. Instead, she halted just ten yards beyond the dumpster. Wordlessly, she thrust her hand in what seemed to be a pile of discarded cardboard and bits of useless junk and grabbed something—a something that let out a surprised, high-pitched yelp. Illyria lifted the kicking, protesting woman out of her scanty hideout.

"Fetch?" Spike suggested.

Illyria ignored him completely, proceeding to carry her target back to the astonished vampire and empathic demon.

The woman with auburn hair made unhappy sigh/grunt as she was callously deposited on the ground before them. When she looked up through the dislodged wisps of golden-red hair, Lorne's eyes widened with recognition. "Bethany?"

"Yes?" the woman groaned, rubbing her sore arm.

"But…what…I don't un...why-" Lorne sputtered.

"What's not to understand?" Bethany snapped. "I was eavesdropping. Your guard dog found me. So if you don't mind, I would rather you just killed me and got it over with. The suspense is kind of nauseating."

Lorne stared at the young woman with unveiled confusion as she stood with her eyes squinted shut, her hands clenched at her sides like the 'usual' victim awaiting their execution. It was Illyria who broke the silence.

"Her abuse of our private intercourse must not be unpunished." Her head jerked towards Lorne. "Tell me, clown, how a human would proceed from here."

"Well, first of all, dollface, the 'clown' thing…" The host faltered, aware of the extremely thin line he was trampling on. "…it kind of confuses one of my unintelligent standards."

For a moment, she did not move. Then, "Your attempt at indulging me is primitive in itself. For that reason alone will I refer to you by your meaningless name."

"Great," Lorne concluded nervously. "Now about the, uh…prisoner…yeah, she's an acquaintance of mine. I'll let her, uh…transgression slide this time."

Illyria blinked, registering this. "She is an associate. Your law requires those of social recognition to be excused from the consequences of committing minor crimes."

"Uh, something like that," said Lorne quickly, too distracted by Beth's unusual presence to put much though into it. He turned to the trembling young woman. "Beth, darling, sugar, song bomb, baby, no one wants to kill you. Actually, make that no one here who isn't an ancient demon of supreme reign and destruction."

Bethany glanced anxiously towards Illyria and Lorne regretted mentioning that part immediately. He sighed. "What are you doing out here?"

"I already told you," she replied smoothly. "I was eavesdropping. Spying. Actually, I kind of hung around outside for a few hours, trying to decide whether or not I should go in and apologize…or just go home and take an aspirin."

After a pause, she winced slightly. "Which reminds me…uh…sorry…"

"So over it, sweet cheeks," Lorne assured her. "You aren't the first to toss me across a room because the Powers the Be and their terrible temper."

It was Bethany's turn to be completely mystified. "You know about the Powers…?"

"Yes, we _all_ know about the Powers," said Spike, cutting short their interlude. He swaggered forward as though he were a bored spectator offering a poor excuse to run off. "Let's say we all discuss the little protégé in the car, shall we?"

"Car?" said Lorne.

"Figured since Eve's got an arm in the tank of legalities, we can't attach ourselves," Spike explained. He was clearly unhappy about the circumstances. "No license plates, no cell phones, public surveillance, credit cards," he listed, counting off each item with a finger.

"Wait, wait, wait…hold on," Lorne said and stepped closer to the vampire. "You said 'car'. If no attachments means no plates, how…?"

"Easy," Spike snorted. "Hired a driver. The shady kind; only takes cash, doesn't ask a lot of bloody stupid questions."

Lorne exchanged glances with Bethany, who had by this time ceased shaking in fear and was an active listener in the debate. Her expression portrayed her doubt of the vampire's tactics, which was mutual for the host, to say the least.

Lorne sighed. "You came all the way to New York using pocket money?"

"Problem with that?" said Spike.

"No," the host replied slowly. "Spike, I do hope you realize that _all_ New York airports don't take straight cash without proper credentials. Which, need I say…is a _profound_ attachment, my good vampire."

Spike deadpanned. "What?"

"That's okay."

Both demons, ancient and Pylean, and vampire, turned their heads to Bethany, who was observing them with an odd, feeble smile. She hugged her arms around herself tightly, her eyes darting from one questioning face to the other before she spoke. "I have credit cards. And cash. If you're running from someone, I can help."

"And just who the bloody hell told you we were running from someone?" Spike challenged.

"Uh, hello?" she said in a 'what-kind-of-moron-do-you-take-me-for' kind of way. "Eavesdropping? Besides, you're not the only ones who had to disappear at some point in their lives."

"Care to run that by again, sweetheart?" said Lorne, almost painfully. "I mean, it's not that we're not grateful…because we are, but I think the whole question that's floating on our minds is…why?"

"Again," she said. "You're not the only ones who…_need_ to disappear at some point in your lives. I must have tried at least a dozen times. This country just isn't for me." She paused while they continued to stare, wordlessly. "If it helps, I know how to speak four different languages, including Spanish."

"What do you mean, 'if it helps'?" said Spike. He advanced on her almost threateningly.

"I'm going with you."

"No." Unexpectedly, it was Illyria who objected first. Her cold gaze was fixed unwaveringly on the young woman's face. "The cooperation of a human will merely obstruct our progression. I am against this course of action."

"I second that motion," said Spike.

Lorne looked uneasily between the vampire and the human woman who was, obviously, expecting him to take sides with her. And it was clear by his expression what his standpoint would be. Spike rolled his eyes.

"You must be joking," he said irritably.

"Well, Goldilocks," said Lorne with a short laugh. He moved to Bethany's side and slung an arm around her shoulder protectively. She, with a smug grin in return, crossed her arms over her chest, as though she had just won some unforeseen battle. The host chuckled. "It's two against two." Seeing the vampire's dead expression, he extended his free arm in protest. "Oh, come on. Where's the harm in letting her tag along?"

"Bullocks. Since when does her vote count?" the vampire retorted.

"Um, since I became your only safe option out of this country?" Bethany cut in. "Listen, I'm a pro at this. Believe me, I _won't_ slow you down. I'm a _lot_ more useful than I look."

Then came a moment of stifling decision. Spike fidgeted, keeping his innermost thoughts to himself but making it _very_ apparent that he was against the idea. At least, against it morally. He would never express the real reason why he didn't want the girl to join their little pilgrimage. No doubt that same reason harbored somewhere beneath Lorne's multiple layers of good character. Neither was blind. Bethany's certain likeness to a certain lost someone made the verdict all the more difficult to make.

Slowly, Spike stopped moving about and lifted his eyes to meet Lorne's gaze. "She's your responsibility."

"Okay, Angel," Lorne said off-handedly. He gestured with a jerk of his head towards the street, which he aimed at Bethany. Then he proceeded to move off in that direction.

"Right, _very_ grown-up," Spike muttered. "Let's go, Blue Thunder."

At the edge of a cold alley, on the side of St. Catherine's Street, a small, beat-up Lincoln pulled up to the curb. Four bodies piled in. The car shuddered, as if complaining under the extra added weight, and rattled as it slunk away from the warm glow of the Square One sign.


	4. Demons

_Square One_

**Summary:** No matter how far you go, you cannot escape your past. The corrupted world they tried to leave behind comes crashing back...Post Not Fade Away. Mainly Lorne and Spike centric, nonslash.

**Notes: **I do very much appreciate the reviews I'm getting. They make me happy. I thanks those regular viewers so far from the bottom of my heart. Though I hate to say this, I must say: The more reviews I get, I guarantee the faster the updates will be. And the more effort I put into making the story as interesting as possible. I have a guilty conscience.

Anyway, I hope you all like plot twists. Not that this chapter is full of them, of course. Where'd you get that idea? I didn't just give it away. Shut up. Go away. No, wait, come back!

Heh heh.

**Disclaimer: **Consult previous chapter.

* * *

_Chapter Four: Demons_

The streets ran with rainwater and demon's blood.

Angel wedged the blade of his confiscated sword from the skull at his feet. He himself was bleeding part of that river that washed around his feet. From somewhere down the alley, he heard another horde of Wolfram and Hart's army crawling out of their portals. In a matter of minutes, they would be swarmed again.

He barely felt the grimace on his own face, his vision blurry with streaming water. Tediously, he limped over to the body of the slain dragon and nudged it lightly with his foot. Yeah…it was dead.

A hoarse cough snagged his attention. The handle of the sword slipped from Angel's fingers as he stumbled towards the body of Gunn. His eyes were open and glancing about, as though expecting more enemies.

Angel knelt beside him. "Stop moving," he ordered, though not even he could mask the concern from his expression. "Hey. Look at me."

Ignoring the order, Gunn reached out, fingers groping for his battle axe on the ground several feet away. "N...ah," he said, gritting his teeth. "I'm fine. Just needed a short breather."

"You've lost a lot of blood," Angel observed. He hastily removed his black coat and used it to press against the deep wound in Gunn's abdomen.

"Spike and…Illyria?" Gunn questioned.

Angel hesitated. "They got separated when the dragon landed. Try to hold still."

Gunn made a sound of restrained pain, but was too weak to move anyway. After a brief moment of silence, he said, "Is it over?"

Looking at his hands, Angel wondered at the amount of blood that was escaping the terrible excuse for a bandage. Gunn would not live long enough to see the next horde of demons. Perhaps a handful of minutes. Maybe even less. He sighed and tried to avoid eye contact. "Yeah. It's over. We won."

That earned him a laugh that turned quickly into a wet cough. "Now I know you're lyin'. Then again, these last…"

Angel nodded. "They were memorable, weren't they?"

The sound of someone moving just behind the dragon's carcass sent Angel to his feet, as he grabbed the hilt of Gunn's axe. He brandished the bloodstained weapon and carefully circled the heap of dead monster until he could see the interloper.

A man in a very expensive, drenched business suit walked calmly towards him. He was roughly mid-thirty-ish with smoothed back, black hair…although it was hard to tell in the rain. A few short yards away, he stopped to look appraisingly around his feet at the mounds of gore.

"Did I miss all the action?" he said in a voice that was persistently and unfashionably annoying. "Well, shucks. I skipped lunch and everything."

Angel's grip tightened around the axe. Sheer willpower kept him from using it. "Deliver your message, then get lost."

"Message?" The lawyer looked up at him and smiled…not nicely. "Oh, no, I'm no messenger. Call me an executioner of sorts. You know, martyring, negotiating surrenders, self-sacrifice, all those dealies."

"No," said Angel, stepping closer. "No more deals. Now if you'll excuse me, I have an endless army of demons to slay."

"Oh, but this one's easy!" the lawyer persisted, his face scrunching up with amusement. He waved a hand in a brisk, dismissive manner as he stepped over the corpse of a demon. "Honestly, I don't know what they're thinking. I just work for them. But really, this is the deal of a lifetime! A once-in-a-millennium opportunity!"

"I said," Angel spoke lowly, glowering into the face of the Senior Partner's liaison. "No."

The lawyer raised a speculative eyebrow and leaned to one side, looking at Gunn. He whistled. "How about you? Want to save the face of humanity?"

Angel's hand shot out and seized the lawyer by the collar, dragging him dangerously close to his face, which was now twice as scary as it had been a moment before. "He's not interested."

The obnoxious grin on the lawyer's face curled into a frown. When Angel deposited him on the ground, he brushed off the front of his jacket indignantly.

"Come on," he said, extending his arms outwards to gesture at the alley. "Look around you. This is just a minute _fraction_ of what we're prepared to throw at you, soul boy. Would that be wrong?" When Angel glared at him, he grinned again. "Of course it would be. Which leaves it up to _you_, the fabled good guy of the century, to do the _right_ thing, right? They can obliterate this city with a single _word_. And just to make the irony smell even worse, they can also save it, and your friends from a meaningless destruction."

With a violent roar, one of the supposedly 'dead' demons sprung up from the rain-soaked ground behind Angel. Without even glancing backward, the vampire slung Gunn's axe over his shoulder and sent it flying. It struck the demon; the blade sunk into the front of its skull and it flopped back to the ground.

"I won't bargain with their lives," Angel stated firmly. He paused, and added as an afterthought, "Again."

"Oh, _please_." The lawyer rolled his eyes. "The Senior Partners only want one thing. Just one. And they only want _one_. Is this getting through to you?"

"What, the actual wanting part or the fact that they only want 'one'?" said Angel with generous sarcasm.

The liaison appeared to be busy wiping the bottom of his shoes off on the shirt of a dead demon while he spoke. "It's not complicated. The partners want…your soul."

Angel stared unblinkingly. "In exchange for?"

A look of mild amusement crossed the lawyer's face and he gestured wistfully at the sky. "The entire city of L.A. The lives of your friends. The end of the present-day Apocalypse. Free tickets to the Chairman's Broadway Musical."

Angel wasn't convinced. "What's so special about my soul that the Senior Partners would go through so much trouble to get it?"

The lawyer just chuckled. "I sincerely doubt it has anything to do with the quality of the soul, compadre. It's just the fact that you _have _one that tickles their temper."

"And if I say no?" said Angel.

"The demon armies continue to reign fire and destruction, one…no, wait…_two_ of your team-goers forfeit their lives and the rest of the world spends the rest of humanity's pathetically brief time on Earth hunting down all demons, both good and bad. "

A lump of ice locked its way into Angel's chest. Slowly, he looked over to where Gunn lay, staring listlessly into space and breathing shallowly. He turned his head back to the lawyer. "Who…" He closed his eyes. "Who else?"

"Are you sure you want to know?" said the lawyer smugly.

"Just tell me."

The well-dressed man shrugged, reached into his jacket pocket and took out a small notepad, reading the name from the single, lined page dispassionately. "That would be…William. Aliases: William the Bloody, AKA Spike. Physical features—medium height, dresses regularly in black leather, pale blonde with somewhat chiselled-"

"All right!" Angel barked. He took a deep breath. "Call off your armies. You can have my soul. But I have one condition."

"Would I be the executive of negotiation if we didn't negotiate?" the lawyer wondered rhetorically.

"I want time."

"Time it is. Name your price; we'll take it from there."

Angel glared. "Six."

"What, hours or days?" said the lawyer, his face skewed.

"Weeks."

"Hmmm…" The liaison glanced upwards. "Two."

"Four."

"Three. Final offer." The lawyer snorted. "Hey, it's an eye-blink to the big guys upstairs. We can deal with it. And hey," he said, pointing at the vampire with a curl to the corner of his mouth, "so can you."

"Fine." Angel took a cautious step towards him. "No one else dies tonight. Your demons go back to hell. The city goes back to normal."

"Everybody wins," the liaison concluded with false modesty. "So…April 25th, say…twelve sharp? Don't worry—we'll have our people find you."

"Looking forward to it," said Angel coolly. Her looked around and spread his hands at his sides. "Where do I sign?"

The lawyer just raised his brow and glanced around himself, and lifted his arms in a gesture of self-evidence.

Angel stared without comprehension. "I don't…"

The spruced man began to slowly advance on the vampire, with an almost insane lift to his face. He stopped with roughly less than a foot between them.

"Hungry?"

* * *

_Ten months later, respectively._

"How many times am I going to have to tell you?" Bethany sighed helplessly to the demon beside her. "I can't _do_ this if you won't stop flinching! It's hard enough I have to do it at all in the dark!"

"I'm sorry, blossom, but I don't think I can stand another second of this stuff. I remember latrines back on Pylea that smelled better," Lorne protested. He was referring to, of course, the pale foundation makeup their newest traveling companion was applying to his face. She had somehow managed to tame his natural hue down to a pale yellow-green.

The car ride to the airport was long and tedious. Illyria sat on Lorne's right in the back seat, while Bethany sat to his left, armed with a purse and some serious cosmetics. Spike was in the passenger seat.

Bethany gave him a disdainful look. "I'll have you _know_ that this _stuff_ is Belle Beau. And it does _not_ smell that bad. _And_ it was expensive." After some short consideration, she picked up the small sponge and began dabbing at his face again. "How did you get this way anyway?"

Lorne side-glanced at her. "Let's just say it came with the life contract, sweetheart."

"Not _that_," she said and growled. "Stop flinching! I mean…you, being all fidgety. Bad experience with cosmetics?"

"Yeah, you could say that," said the host placidly. "I've got two words for it: Los and Vegas."

"Ooh," she twisted her lips in a look of painful sympathy. "Yeah, that would do it to you."

"Honey, you have _no_ idea," he said.

"Shoot." Bethany picked up the empty makeup container and shook it. "That's it. I'm all out. We'll have to make do with what we have."

"Oh, thank God," said Lorne. She shot him a look he pretended to not notice. "Can I have my sunglasses back?"

"You're putting them on now?" she asked, handing him the object in question.

"No, I want to see my reflection," he explained, turning the glasses to better see his image on their mirror-like surface. His expression changed to that of fretful nature. "Ah, regret. I had forgotten how bitter its taste was."

Bethany rolled her eyes and sat back against the car seat. "You're welcome."

At this time, Spike chose to turn around to look at Bethany's handiwork. For a moment it seemed as though he were gazing right through the host. Then he made a sound peculiarly like a choked-back laugh.

"You look like a bloody zombie!" The vampire grinned maliciously. "Brilliant job, girlie. You managed to turn our scary-looking demon into the living dead. Those airport lackeys won't know what the hell hit them."

"Scary-looking?" Lorne protested, leaning forward. "Hey, look who's talking. You aren't exactly the Webster's definition of 'cute' yourself, sunshine."

"Right," said Spike. "Says the hideously grotesque, green-skinned spawn from another world."

"Ouch. Here's an idea—why don't you show Beth your pretty face?"

Spike's eyes narrowed. "If you don't shut your mouth, my pretty face will be the last thing you—"

"Guys! Hey!" Bethany shouted.

"What?" they snapped in chorus.

"We're _there_."

Spike twisted around to confirm that, indeed, she was right. The enormous building and multitudes of crammed parking lots rolled by the windows. It was just a matter of navigating around the twisting, bending roads that led to the airport's entrance. But that, of course, was entirely up to their driver.

The driver had turned out to be a middle-aged American with a short grey beard and a ball cap—Yankee style, naturally. He had only spoken once, to Spike, about their destination. He gave no notice at all to the fact that he was ferrying two demons and a vampire. And why should he? He was from New York.

"Bugger," said Spike, resting against the car door. "'Course, it has to be the weekend. Couldn't have to rescue karaoke boy on a business day."

Bethany leaned forward. "You know, I think you need to start thinking more pos-"

Without warning, the car suddenly jolted upwards, as though something large had just rolled under the tires. Panicked, the driver slammed his foot on the brakes, causing the vehicle to come to a screeching halt in the middle of the road. Beth might have gone airborne, but, thinking fast, Lorne grabbed the collar of her jacket just as her body slammed into the back of Spike's seat.

"-itively," she croaked, finishing her sentence. She flopped back into her original seat, grappling her shoulder painfully. "Ow."

"Are you alright?" said Lorne, peering at her strangely. Receiving no answer, he turned to the rest of the car. "Is everyone okay?"

"Never better," said Spike blandly. "Anyone else wondering the hell that was?"

"I-I…I-" the driver was stammering. His hands were white and clenched tightly to the wheel. "I think I just hit a…a person."

"Oh," the vampire moaned, leaning into his seat with his head tilted to the sky. "Just brilliant. Start our glorious journey by running over the local tourists, shall we?"

"N-Now, everybody remain calm," said the driver, prying his hands from their grip. "No one panic. I-I'll go outside and see if he's okay." Stiffly, he turned to his clients. "Does anyone have a…a cell phone or something?"

Everyone looked at Lorne. The host glared back. "Sorry, people, I wasn't exactly planning on needing one on my whole 'let's-flee-the-country-for-dear-life' vacation."

"Will someone just go and check if he's okay?" Bethany squeaked.

"Or she," said Spike.

"Not exactly helping here, desperado," Lorne admonished.

"I'm going outside," the driver announced. With fluttering fingers, he opened his door and stepped out onto the pavement. The door clicked shut with a sort of foreboding finality.

Bethany waited exactly three seconds before letting out a loud sigh and grabbing the handle of her own door. She was stopped by a hand on her arm and she looked at Lorne, surprised.

"Don't," he said with an edge of fear. "I…have a really bad feeling about this."

"As touched as I am by your concern, I think I can handle myself," she replied coldly and shook him off, pulling the handle at the same time.

Something heavy and bloody slammed against her door. Bethany shrieked at the face pressed against the glass of her window—it was the driver, pale, sickly. Dead. A split second later, the body slid to the side, revealing a blurry, dark figure. It grabbed the door from the outside and tore it right off the hinges. An arm clad in black reached in and grabbed the screaming woman, dragging her out of the car and onto the ground. The attacker tossed her to one side, as though she were just one more object in his way.

Lorne sat in frozen terror. The distant floodlights of the airport illuminated the form of the creature outside just well enough to recognize him.

It was a fully vamped Angel.

No coherent thought ran through his mind. He didn't even resist when Angel lunged forward and grabbed him by the lapels, towing him from the car with the same delicacy he had shown his previous victim. Lorne was hauled onto his feet, receiving a full moment's view of Angel's fully fanged grin.

"Angel-" he started.

Something solid smashed into his jaw before he could finish the word. Angel released him simultaneously, and the green-skinned demon sprawled to one side.

Lorne placed a hand over his horribly aching jaw as he looked up, aghast by the vampire's unexplainable behaviour. Then it dawned upon him, as Angel slowly advanced on him, smiling like child at play.

"Angelus." Lorne lowered his hand and tried, waveringly, to rise.

"Hello, Lorne," said Angelus, seizing him by the jacket again. Lorne didn't even try to fight back. He had seen the destruction Angel's counterpart was capable of, and there wasn't even a slight chance the vampire would succumb to anything Lorne could throw at him.

There was a sound of breaking glass. Angelus let go of the host, stumbling backwards and screaming mercilessly. A clear liquid was dripping down his hair and into his face; smoke rising into the air from the places it burned him. Lorne saw Illyria standing, calm as statue, behind the vampire, the remnants of a bottle in her hand. She looked up at him, but said nothing.

Lorne didn't need anyone to instruct him on what to do next. Angelus was momentarily incapacitated, though certainly not defeated. He scrambled over to where Bethany sat, staring in wide-eyed terror at the caterwauling vampire. He took both her arms and pulled her to her feet, but she hardly responded.

Spike had thrown himself over the hood of the car and was now directly facing Angelus. In the faded lighting, they were now two vampires, one soulless, the other not; a cruel parody of a time some hundred years ago. Spike was clearly avoiding a direct conflict with Angelus, seeming more occupied with distracting him from Lorne instead. There were untold secrets just choking the moment.

Lorne somehow managed to get Bethany to the car and she, snapping out of her shock, crawled into the back seat again. Illyria climbed in after her. Lorne hesitated, turned about with one hand on the roof of the car.

"Spike! Get in the car!" he called over the screams of Angelus.

Spike glanced behind him and faltered. Looking between the other vampire and the demon, there was no doubt that he was battling with the urge to do what was safe, and what he thought was right. Finally, he stepped back and started for the car. Without warning, Angelus swiped at him blindly, but missed. The platinum blonde vampire got into the passenger side of the car without looking back.

Lorne took the driver's side, turning the key in the ignition. It took of with a jerk, leaving a blinded, enraged Angelus stumbling in their wake before dropping to his knees in the center of the road.

The holy water still burned through his skin. It burned, but not so nearly as fiercely as the wrath he felt, watching his quarry escape. The red taillights of the car grew smaller as it gained distance with every passing second.

He let them escape this time. Next time, he would _feel_ Spike's dust as he crushed it in his hand. Savour the acidic taste of the demon's blood as he drained it of life. Watch the light in the eyes of the female die, very, very slowly. Then he would have fulfilled that rend in his dignity.

Not to mention perform his end of the Partners' bargain.

Life was good.


End file.
